Underneath It All (10 page)

I was four in the morning and I hadn't slept a wink. I was simply lying in my motel room in the heart of Hollywood, listening to the cars of the rich and famous drive by. I couldn't bear returning home to Sonny, so there I stayed, stone sober and feeling everything.
I kicked the covers off and walked to the window, watching the hookers work the street as night turned to day. Was I really any different from them? "Everyone has a price and anything can be bought." Bell's words nagged at me as I replayed the evening's events.
Only hours earlier, I'd sat comfortably in Scott's car. I'd never been in a fancy automobile before and I now understood what people meant when they asked for a "new car smell" at the car wash. I'd barely said a word on the drive to my motel. But it didn't matter; he was happy to do all the talking. Scott Bell was the kind of man who enjoyed the sound of his own voice. He was a fast talker who bragged about everything from the fabulous vacations he'd taken to the numerous cable movies he'd produced, none of which I cared much about.
Then he revealed his softer side. He was a father, and when he spoke of his three-year-old son, his whole demeanor changed. The arrogant L.A. hotshot producer was replaced by a caring family man. He was proud of his little boy and spoke sadly about his recent divorce. I was moved by the genuine love he expressed for his child and was touched by his gentleness.
Maybe I was wrong about this guy. Man, was I ever going to be able to tell the good guys from the bad?
He asked me why I was staying at a motel and I told him that I was ending a relationship, careful not to reveal too much about myself. He was thirty-six years old and I felt very sixteen around him. "We'd make a great team, Kristie," he said, warmly reaching for my hand. "Let me help you." I got out of his car promising him I'd think about it. And I spent the whole night doing just that.
As I watched a girl climb in a car, it seemed Bell was right. Everyone does have a price and anything can be bought. I needed what he offered, but I wasn't sure I could do what he asked. Staring at the streetwalkers outside, I wondered which fate would be worse: dying on the streets or dying in front of a camera? I closed my eyes and tried to imagine having sex on film again, but the thought was too disturbing. I got dressed and headed up Sunset Strip looking for an escape. I scored some downers and bought a sixer, and then went back to my room, drinking until my eyes were heavy and my thoughts were swimming in Budweiser. I woke to the maid pounding on the door. It was checkout time.

I returned home to Lawndale that afternoon and found an eviction notice stuck to our front door.
Fuck!
Sonny was naked and sobbing in the living room. Unaware of my arrival, he was snorting a line of cocaine and watching Jimmy Swaggart on television. I took in this bizarre scene and quietly backed out of the room.
Heart pounding, I made my way through our trashed house to the bedroom, unable to get the image of his snotty face out of my head. He was a disgusting animal and I was repulsed.
Anyplace is better than this
, I thought. I had to get out of there.
Throwing a few things into a bag, I planned to make a quick getaway out the back door, but Sonny cornered me in the bedroom.
Fuck!
He slapped me in the mouth and ripped a dress out of my hands, then grabbed me by the hair and threw me across the room. Tasting blood in my mouth, I slowly crept along the floor to the switchblade in my purse, praying I wouldn't have to use it.
Hurling himself at me again, he collapsed at my feet in sobs, begging me to forgive him. Frightened and confused, I stroked his damp hair and told him everything was going to be all right.
He was so fucked up. I couldn't help but feel sorry for him, no matter how badly he'd abused me.
An hour later he passed out in his own vomit. I called 911 and left him for good.
Later that night I called Scott from a dingy bar in Hermosa Beach. Crying hysterically, I told him I'd do whatever he asked me to do, pleading with him to just come get me. I felt like I was making a deal with the devil that night. But at the time it seemed like the only thing I could do.
Once again my life became a constant blur of sex and drugs as Scott quickly took on the role of business partner, boyfriend, and pimp to the porn industry. Over the next twelve months he produced and directed me in two porn films. He even leased me an apartment in Redondo Beach.
In May of 1986 he took me to Paris.
I wanted to admire that beautiful city, but it was almost impossible to appreciate. We were there to film a French porn movie and I was achingly sad, more depressed than I had ever been in my life. I just couldn't fathom Scott's willingness to direct me in explicit-sex movies if he really loved me. It was obvious I was suffering. My drug intake was at an all-time high, my weight had dropped to ninety-four pounds, and my fivefoot-seven-inch frame looked more frail than ever. I was rotting in my own self-imposed prison. And no one around me seemed to notice or care.
As publicity for the French film, I was scheduled to be the main attraction at a Parisian club that night. I was lowered from the ceiling in a giant gold birdcage while a sea of faces stared up at me. Wearing diamond-studded shorts and white cowboy boots, I kicked my legs to soar even higher on the swing as I descended in my fancy cell, quietly humming "Happy Birthday" to myself on the way down. Below me, I could see the club owner doing shots at the bar with Scott. I wanted another drink myself.
The fans were now face-to-face with me, but the bars on my cell kept me safely out of reach. My breasts were covered in glitter and they shimmered in the flickering lights as strangers reached for them and bulbs flashed mercilessly in my face. Voices called to me in French and the motion of the swing was starting to make me queasy when I was finally pulled upward toward the heavens.
The evening's work finished, I sat alone in the darkness of my dressing room, downing another shot of tequila in tribute to my very special, very secret day.
It was 12:01 on May 7, 1986. I was eighteen years old.
The following morning we started filming
Traci, I Love You.
Scott banged on my dressing room door and summoned me to work. I unlocked the door and downed a glass of vodka as my love led me onto the set. My eyes met his as I unbuttoned the stranger's pants, and his smiling face dug deep into my heart as he watched from behind the camera and motioned for me to continue.
Nothing made sense anymore, everything was twisted and surreal. Millions of fans would later mistake my guttural moans for pleasure.

Days after I returned from Paris, I woke up sprawled out in a pile of sweat-drenched clothing, the sun's glare punching me in the face. I had a serious case of jet lag and it took me a few minutes to figure out who I was, where I was, and what I needed to do that day to survive.
I vaguely remembered having sex with some guy but couldn't quite put it together. My answering machine had screamed at me most of the night or was it the day? I was supposed to be somewhere, but I couldn't remember where. I felt thick. My head was pounding and I needed water but couldn't bring myself to move. So I just lay there, sprawled out on the cream-colored carpet of my 2,400-square-foot apartment overlooking King Harbor in Redondo Beach.
It was a gorgeous apartment, the kind you get when you "make it." But anyone could tell something was a bit off. The living room was completely empty except for the antique mirror my mother had given me years earlier, now lying in the middle of the room with remnants of the previous night's coke binge on it. A bottle of spilled red wine stained the otherwise immaculate carpet, and bits and pieces of discarded clothing littered the
room. I'd been on a bender for two days, and now I guess I finally had come home.
It must have been the cop who'd dropped me off. I had. thing for cops. Actually, there was one in particular whom I liked. His name was Chris and he was my favorite. He'd usually catch me coming out of the Poop Deck and save me from a DUI.
I'd returned from Paris to an empty apartment and a serious case of suicidal thoughts. Maybe it was the jet lag, maybe it was that I suspected Scott was lying about being divorced from his wife, maybe it was birthday blues, or maybe it all just finally got to me. I was at the end of my rope and losing what little grip I had left.
I got high to forget, but after a while even that didn't quiet the storm in my head or stop the film loop of my life from tormenting me with its perfect memory. The sex dreams were the worst. They had become a montage of body parts and I could never seem to separate fantasy from reality. I saw dicks everywhere—dicks and fat faces and beady, Ron Jeremy eyes. It made me crazy.
I was losing my mind.

Forty-eight hours later, facedown on my water bed, I watched the hands on the bedside clock move. It was 4:23 A.M. and the stench of an all-night binge hung thick in the air. Sprawling across the water bed, I searched the overflowing ashtray for one last puff of a used cigarette. My hand shook as I sorted through the butts, desperate for a toke as the remnants of the cocaine I'd snorted started to wear off.
"I fucking hate this part," I mumbled loudly in the direction of Scott's passed-out form.
He'd shown up unannounced late the night before and promptly fallen asleep. He was no doubt fighting with his "ex" again. I glared at him as I ground my teeth, turning to watch the dead fish in the aquarium next to my bed floating belly up in the murky water. I pictured myself floating alongside them, my lungs slowly filling with water. I pushed the image out of my head. My mouth was so dry I could hardly swallow and I couldn't seem to move.
Lying there miserably in the darkness, I contemplated scraping my tongue when suddenly the whole apartment shook violently.
What the hell is that?
The noise thundered closer toward me and I bolted upright thinking it was an earthquake. My bedroom door burst open and three men stormed in pointing shiny black guns at me. Not believing what I was seeing, I tried to focus my eyes. The dim light from the aquarium cast a blue glow over the surreal creatures, lighting up the yellow FBI letters across their backs.
FBI!
I gasped, wondering if it was a hallucination. Had I died and gone to hell? I spoke to the blue men and demanded to know if this was a dream.
Scott was dragged roughly to the floor and slammed facedown into the carpet when reality finally hit me. Pushing myself' into the corner of the bed, I pulled the covers protectively over my body.
"Stop it!" I screamed as the armed men surrounded me and aimed their guns in my direction.
Oh my God . . . Oh my God . . .
I closed 'my eyes and waited for bullets to tear into my flesh. I felt the sweat roll down my body. "GET THE FUCK OUT OF BED NOW!" I was ordered. My legs trembled as I tried to obey. My eyes darted around the room and took in their smirking faces as I was tightly handcuffed and led down the hallway out the front door. I tried to remember where I'd hidden my stash, certain that it had to be a drug bust.
What else could be? That motherfucking dealer ratted me out! But how did he know where I lived? He'd never been to my place. . . . Ouch!
I hit my head as I was stuffed into an unmarked car, shoeless and naked beneath the knee-length Metallica T-shirt I'd worn to bed.
"WHERE THE FUCK ARE YOU TAKING ME? !" I demanded. "What am I being arrested for?" I wailed as the car took off. "You can't do this!"
I was being kidnapped and I didn't know why.
The sun started to blind me as it came up on the long drive. I had no idea where we were going and no one was talking. I hadn't been read my rights. I wasn't even sure I was being arrested and I certainly wasn't convinced they were really FBI agents. I was on the verge of hysteria, questions pounding through my mind.
Who would want me dead? Could this be my ex-agent North's doing? He was furious when I went into business with Scott. He'd sworn he'd get even. Was this payback time?
"WHY ARE YOU PEOPLE DOING THIS! ANSWER ME!" My heart raced, but everything else remained silent. I sank helplessly in the backseat, the handcuffs digging into my flesh.
Utterly spent, I sat scared and defeated as the car wound through traffic toward the tall buildings downtown. I pictured myself escaping, running through the streets in my long nightshirt, helicopters chasing me, but I didn't move a muscle I just sat there, thinking of my mom hanging clean clothes on the line, the wind in her hair, laughing. I was so little then, maybe four or five. . . .
The federal building in downtown Los Angeles wasn't as glamorous as I'd seen in the movies. They took me in the back way and led me toward an elevator. By now I was certain I was in serious trouble. They must have found my drugs, I thought.
Would Scott rat me out? Was he here too?
Staring down at my chipped red toenail polish in the filthy freight elevator, I wondered what would happen next.
A ding of the elevator signaled our arrival. The monstrous army of blue men walked me out and into a cramped white room with a VCR, stacks of videos, and a lady with a tiny typewriter. A fat-faced man told me to sit in a yellow plastic chair in the center of the room and I did, crossing my legs extra tight. They were all gawking at me and I glared at every one of them, memorizing their faces: one . . . two . . . three . . . seven—seven of them in one room with me.
The fat-faced man stepped forward and introduced himself as Detective Rooker. Then he said the words I'd been longing to hear for the past three years: "We know who you are, Nora. We're here to help you; but first, you're going to have to help us." And then the bottom fell out of my world.
My stomach dropped and I wanted to scream, both in outraged grief and in relief I cannot explain. Someone had finally stopped me. It was over. But it wasn't the rescue I'd dreamed of. I was in a room full of leering men who seemed to be getting off on my hysteria. If they were trying to help me, why were they doing this? I looked Rooker dead in the eyes, trying to see if he was a good guy or a bad guy, but before I could even make up my mind he sealed his own fate by popping a triple-X video of me having sex into the VCR. Someone in the back of the room whistled and Rooker scolded them. I exploded, remembering how my mother had gently scolded Roger years ago for look at my "poached eggs."
"Fuck you people!" I spat. "You're not here to help me! You just want your piece." I was livid—all the pain and rage I'd felt for years shot out of my mouth in the shape of four-letter words. The lady with the tin typewriter pecked nervously in the background. I felt like a caged animal ready to attack, but as we watched film after film of me having sex with strangers, my fury gave way to numbness.
"What took you so long?" I asked the fat-faced man.
He told me I was part of a sting operation that had some thing to do with a man named Meese and that they'd been gathering information on me for a while.
The Traci Lords case was three years old.
I couldn't believe what I was hearing.
"YOU PEOPLE KNEW THE WHOLE TIME?"
I went berserk.
"Hey," Rooker said, trying to calm me down, "what are you crying for? Tomorrow we're all going to be famous. Isn't that what you want?"
I just looked at him, not understanding. "Famous for what?"